To Be or Not To Be . . . a Coffee Person

            

Tomorrow I will begin a human experiment…on my own self.  I’m going to join the majority of y’all and attempt to become a Coffee Person.  Having always been a tea drinker, I only have an occasional sweetened, milky coffee as an afternoon treat.  Unlike a coffee drinker, I never sip my caffeinated beverage first thing in the morning, preferring to let my body and mind waken naturally.  But all of that is going to change.  Like you, I’m going to kick off my morning tomorrow with some steamy old-fashioned black coffee.

            I’ve been watching you Coffee People, and I feel like I’m missing out on something.  You love your hot mug of restorative tonic more than just about anything.  Coffee is one of the few addictions that you actually brag about, “I drank a half a pot before noon today!” or “I ordered a Quadruple Grande and I was feeling grrreat by the time I got to work!”

            The smell of fresh brewed drip brings a long and lazy inhale, complete with flared nostrils, and a wide grin to your faces.  Many of your conversations swirl around the best blends, shops and baristas.  Going camping with Coffee People is quite an experience.  Before bedding down in our tents, the CPs must discuss who is making the first pot, when, with what equipment and will there be enough?  Usually this is all physically set up before the campfire light dies away.  You wouldn’t want to waste any of your morning without a hot cup in your hand and some liquid stimulant in your gullet.

            And the absence of coffee leaves you feeling not quite right.  I have a sister who, it is widely known, cannot function as a human being until she has consumed enough of the black stuff to bring her blood level up to a 1:1 ratio of coffee to plasma.  If you happen to bump into her before she stumbles to the coffee pot you’d better take cover, or at least give her a very wide berth.  After a cup or two the blank zombie-eyed stare will be replaced by her cheerful twinkle and a smile, and you know it is safe for others to enter the room.  I’m sure this sounds familiar.

            My friends and I have a fun Relay Team that requires us to stay up all day, night and day to run 200 consecutive miles.  One of the major planning hurdles we need to clear for this event is where/when/how will we get coffee so we don’t die?  Because, of course, many of us just wouldn’t survive this event without the precious hot liquid.  I don’t doubt that some of these gals would rather be dead than go without.  One year, rummy with fatigue, a few team members stopped at a coffee shop while waiting for our runner to come into the exchange.  There was a major crisis when the realization was made that they had forgotten to bring a precious cup for the runner, who was going to shrivel up and die without that black gold.  That day I learned to never under-estimate the needs of the CP.

            In the morning, like you, I plan to dive into steamin’ hot Cuppa Joe.  There are risks involved, I know, such as a desperate caffeine addiction or worse, coffee breath.  But if this beverage is so important to you Coffee People, then maybe it will be good for me, too.    Wish me luck…and watch out!

The Accidental Voyeur

            Leash connecting you, your six feet pad along on the pitch dark pavement.  Street lights illuminate your puffs of hot breath as you pass under one after another.  There is nothing but silence, aside from the occasional skitter of a night creature returning to its den.  Porch lights are on and windows are dark.  Behind you approaches a hum….squeak….thump, hum…squeak….thump, as the bleary-eyed newspaper delivery guy tosses his rubber-banded packages onto each driveway on the block.

            An embarrassed neighbor, dressed in plaid flannel pajamas and yellow fuzzy slippers, scuttles quickly back inside her house clutching the morning news in hopes that you didn’t notice her bed-head.

Randomly a window lights up.  First a bathroom, then a kitchen.  You spy two tousled grey heads shuffling to the kitchen table to sip steaming coffee and read the newspaper in silence.  No need for words when you can read each other’s minds.

With a hint of light on the horizon, you come full circle to your doorstep.  Nose cherry-red from the cold, you owned the morning.  Who needs coffee?

* * *

And now your day is nearly done.  A short walk for the pooch with a belly full of warm dinner, the sky-light is fading and the moon rises.   Indoor lights are switched on to fight the growing darkness, but the twilight glows and it’s not yet dark enough to draw curtains.  You can’t help but see families sew up their day with bed-time rituals.  T.V.s glow in rec rooms while children’s heads bounce high in front of their bedroom window chanting, “Two little monkeys jumping on the bed!”

A head works at the kitchen sink, pots are scrubbed, then counters are wiped and kitchen lights go out.  Bathrooms are briefly alight with tooth brushing.  Finally, curtains are drawn for bedtime stories.  Goodnight Moon.

Mike Memories: How to Hock a Loogie

Phlegm:  A word like no other.  Six letters strung together so awkwardly that they look like a mistake.  Yet this word does exist in the dictionary.  Even if you aren’t aware of its meaning, when you attempt to pronounce the word the throat reacts with a mini-gag-reflex, kind of a tongue twister for the back of the palette.  And if you are aware of its meaning, the thought of what it defines brings a mini-gag-reflex as well.  The perfect word is one that every aspect of it, even the spelling, represents its essence.  Phlegm.

The first time I heard the word spoken I assumed it was spelled like it sounds when said carelessly – f-l-e-m, and it didn’t leave much of an impression on me.  Sure, the idea was gross.  Just like ‘snot’ or ‘turd’.  But once I saw the word on a page and said it out loud the way it was meant to be said, it just seemed like genius to me.

Growing up, my brother Mike said that phlegm was the key ingredient to hocking a good loogie.  I tried and tried to spit like him, but it always came out in an embarrassing spray that moistened (another awful and melodic word) my shirt and face. Then I’d have to use my sleeve to wipe off the evidence.  Not like his.  When Mike would spit there was practically a drum roll while he prepared a perfect glob of goo that he aimed and fired with near perfect accuracy at any target.  A lifetime of practice, and I am still unable to spit like that.

Mike used his phlegmy talents to control and terrorize us younger siblings while Mom and Dad were gone working long days.  If we got in his way or threatened to tattle, we often were subjected to the Spit Treatment.  With his size advantage, it took him merely seconds to pin me to the floor and sit on my chest.  Sometimes I would fight and squirm until I was panting like a german shepherd and covered in sweat, but it was no use.  With my arms pinned to the carpet, I would turn my head to the side as he snorted and honked, gathering a mouthful of phlegm….yes phlegm.  I’d turn my head to the side as he hovered over my face, open his lips just enough to allow a drop of goo to stretch out of his mouth.  As it got longer and closer to me I would make a squirming effort to get free, but he would suck up the spit just before the slimy ribbon broke free to land on my face.  Depending on how mad I was or how long I could stand it before giving in, the torture usually ended after a few scares like this – I would give in and scream “Okay!  Okay!  I won’t tell!”

 

At this he would temporarily suck the goo back into his mouth and swallow.  “Tell them WHAT?” he would growl in a dangerous voice and then start honking and snorting again.

 

 “That you flushed my sock down the toilet (or whatever he did this time).  I promise!”  If I was in a particularly stubborn mood and didn’t give in soon enough he would keep at it until finally one glob of throat snot would drop and splatter on my face.  He then would explode in a wicked cackle as I wiggled free and ran screaming to the bathroom to sterilize myself.  Phlegm may be an interesting word to read and say, but I didn’t want it dripping between my eyes.   Particularly if it didn’t belong to me in the first place.

Hmmmm.  I started with a single word and wound up taking a long trip, way down memory lane.  That’s the greatest thing about words.  They can take you places that are no longer available in the real world. 

            

A Message to Arachnophobes – Get Over It!

            Spiders are people too.  Well…if we disregard the six extra legs, the fact that their bones are on the outside of their bodies and they live on insect guts…okay, they’re NOT people.  But with a little education maybe we humans can get over our irrational phobia of creepy-crawly things and we could offer the spider some respect.

            I was raised to respect the spider.  Not by my parents, but by my big brother Jim.  Nearly a decade my senior, Jim is a natural-born teacher.  You’d never find him in a classroom, though, because he is too shy.  And regular teachers have to teach ordinary stuff and Jim loves to talk about the extraordinary.  My childhood was filled with hours of ‘lessons’ ranging from the best rock and roll bands, creatures large and small/cute and creepy, to the human history of ancient torture methods.

            For whatever reason, Jim had a special affection for spiders.  Upon entering his bedroom you would see shoeboxes lining his shelves and dresser.  A closer look at each box would reveal a little spider habitat protected by a stretched out piece of cellophane, a perfect window for viewing.  He kept a variety of spiders to observe and feed.  I was often enlisted to collect live food for these eight legged beauties. 

I would watch in fascination as the orb-weaving garden spider would prance out to the edge of her web to tackle and wrap-up a fly to save for a later meal.  Who needs tupperware?  When hungry, she would inject the mummified fly to liquefy its innards, and then delicately sip her bug smoothie for dinner.

My favorite was a fellow named Wolfgang.  He was the kind we often call a wolf spider, but was more likely a common house spider.  Wolfgang was a hunter rather than a web-weaver, meaning he stalked his prey, captured it on the move and brought it back to his lair for a feast.  Wolfie favored a small matchbox in his habitat, with the drawer slid part way open, in which to eat and rest.  I never was able to see him catch a meal but I always found his leftovers.  After a tasty meal of fleshy bug, he would sweep out the too-crunchy legs and wings into a neat little pile just outside of his matchbox.

Jim would also show me how some fellers have amazing eyesight.  You know the cute little stripy guys that hang out around windowsills and potted plants?  We call those Jumpers.  For spiders they have really good vision and we would test them by moving a finger back and forth several inches away.  The little guys would shuffle and track our fingers around and around.  Watching them hunt is a real treat.  They’ll watch and track an unsuspecting insect until the time is right and then LAUNCH in a lightning fast hop!  And the bug never knew what hit it.  If a human had those hops, we’d be able to jump right over our own roofs!

You might still be thinking, I don’t care about all of this – I still hate spiders.  I say, Get Over It.  The fact is, most spider species are not capable of biting through human skin.  It is a fact that almost all of the wounds we blame on spiders are not spider-bites at all – they are most likely skin infections brought on by an insect bite or other abrasion.  Certainly their eight-legged crawl can send shivers down our spines, but just imagine what we look like to them?  Giant, fleshy rolling pins ready to squish the life out of them, that’s what we humans are to the spiders.  They just want to mind their own business, catch some flies and find a mate.  It’s not our right to smash them on the spot, just because they give us the creeps.

Next time scoop up that house spider in a cup and throw him outside to find a new home.  Or if that beautiful garden spider is blocking your door, find a stick and relocate her and her web to a nearby bush.  She will consume her broken web and recycle it into a brand-new orb– isn’t that nifty?  And they will all stay busy gobbling up all of the insect pests that truly are our enemies.  Get it right and show that spider the respect she deserves.

Be the Squirrel

            A commotion just outside the window caught my eye.  I looked up to see Roger the Cat chasing a grey squirrel all over our deck in a mad ricochet of fur.  The rodent dashed along the railings, up the post and along the trellis, with Roger in close pursuit.  Suddenly the fluffy-tailed squirrel stopped and turned to face the cat.  Dumbfounded, Roger stopped too.  (And I'm pretty sure I heard him mutter a swear word under his breath.)  For a few moments they stood there, eye to eye.  Then the squirrel looked around, planned and followed a safe route off of the deck.  Too stunned to continue the chase, Roger watched and eventually made a half-hearted attempt to follow.

            What had just happened?  This was a lesson my dog has had to learn over and over (so I guess she hasn’t quite mastered it yet) – that You Can’t Chase What Won’t Run Away.  Our Riley-dog has nursed a scratched, bleeding nose on more than one occasion as a result of over-estimating the fear she can instill in a neighborhood cat.  With a hiss and a yelp, the chase is over before it ever begins.  A large buck sporting large antlers delivered more serious injuries to our mutt when he refused to be intimidated by her bark-ful and speedy pursuit.

            We humans should take note.  Of course the massive buck was not taking a risk by standing his ground, but what about the smaller animals?  What business does a five pound cat have standing up to a 70 pound dog?  Is it plain stupidity, or bravery and good judgment?  I’d like to advocate for the latter.  Bear with me on this segue, please.

            Recently a friend posted a cautionary tale about a sexual predator hiding in a women’s bathroom stall in a shopping mall.  Totally creepy and possibly quite dangerous.  The moral of the story was to always accompany your young children into public bathrooms.  Good advice, we can all agree.  But it got me to thinking about my own kids who are teenagers and no longer willing to hold mommy’s hand.  In fact, this is the age when we push them out into the world and hope they use good judgment.  What if I can’t be there?  What if there’s a creep in the bushes on their way to school?  What if…what if…what if??  Watch the evening news just once and your mind will be over-flowing with terrifying “What if?” scenarios to keep you up all night with worry.  Nobody will benefit from that.

            It’s time to teach my teenage children to Be the Squirrel.  Take control of their safety and not live in fear.  In reference to the public bathroom scenario, I always think of the lesson my running partner, Carol, taught me.  As a runner you are out at strange times of the day, often in secluded areas.  Once in a while there is a need to stop at a park bathroom, when nobody seems to be around.  Carol’s tactic is to storm into the building, pushing the door hard so it hits the wall with a “thud” and belt out a loud, deep man-cough.  Next look under doors for occupancy, and swing each door wide open with force to expose any hiding creeps.  If there was any shady character sitting in wait, he’d likely dash out the door with his tail between his legs, and he certainly wouldn't see you as an easy target.  Carol is channeling the Squirrel.  She is showing the world that she is strong, competent and not to be messed with.

            I want each of my daughters to live a life full of adventure.  Of course their safety is of utmost importance, but I don’t want them to be constantly looking over their shoulders in fear or feel haunted by endless What ifs.  My hope is that they will face their fears with confidence, take control of their lives and Be the Squirrel!

The Legacy of My Daughters’ Dead Mother

            That would be me, only I’m not dead yet.  And I don’t plan to be among the deceased any time soon.  Unfortunately the end of my life is inevitable and occasionally I think about what I will leave behind someday, what lessons my children or students might say I taught them.  I’m not talking shoe-tying or arithmetic.  Rather, will I be a voice in their head that inspires them to do good things?  Or will they merely remember my mistakes so they can successfully avoid making them, too.

            So one day in the future if my daughters, or one of the other children in my life, claim they learned one of these nuggets of wisdom from me I will do a happy dance in my urn.  Better yet, they will confess to it while I’m still around and kicking and I will truly celebrate.  (And Mom and Dad – I thank you for teaching me these things, too!)

            So kids…Listen Up:

Perfection is a Myth.  Like hanging a picture on the wall that never-seems-straight-from-all-angles so looking at it makes you crazy and you can’t-leave-it-alone but can never-get-it-just right, seeking perfection does not bring happiness.  Don't try to hide that scar, but DO tell the story of the epic adventure when it happened.  You are human.  You might have a wart, a blemish, or wrinkle.  Every single thing that makes us “not perfect” adds character to who we are.  I laugh too loud, am as graceful as a three-legged elephant and have unruly hair, but I do enjoy life!  That’s good enough for me.

Be Proud of Yourself at the End of Each Day.  Take time to reflect on all the great stuff you accomplished, but also pay attention to that nagging feeling that erupts from time to time.  That feeling that comes when you didn’t help the scrawny kid when he dropped and splattered his lunch across the floor while everybody laughed.  You can’t turn back time, but you can do better next time.  If it is something you can fix, with an apology or a ‘thank you’, then promise yourself to fix it tomorrow.

Be Kind.  If somebody around you is acting like a butt-head, assume they are having a bad day.  An offer of help, a tiny compliment or a kind word may turn them around.  Of course, some people really ARE butt-heads and you should just steer clear!  Use your best judgment, but never stoop to the butt-head level yourself.

Don’t Take Yourself Too Seriously.  Since we can’t be perfect we make mistakes, say stupid things or embarrass ourselves.  I try to keep my kids humble by embarrassing them in public whenever possible.  Remember that by nature teenagers are embarrassed by their parents, so why not make it count!?  I like to sing while shopping, make silly puns at every opportunity and call my kids by goofy nicknames.  They have learned to not worry so much about what people think of them.  I like that.

Be Humble.  This doesn’t mean that you can’t celebrate your greatness, but don’t think you are better than someone else because of it.  You aced that test?  Betty got a C?  She was probably up late playing her violin in the symphony last night.  We all shimmer in the right circumstances.

Respect Living Things.  (Within reason, of course – parasitic mosquitos and ants swarming your kitchen are free game as far as I’m concerned.)  It is not cute, funny or heroic to squish a small creature or harass a larger one.  Some people think my younger daughter may have taken this one too far, as she has been known to “rescue” a fly from a spider’s web to nurse it back to health.  But if an animal is not harming you (no matter how creepy it may be) and is minding its own business, you mind YOUR own business and leave it be.  And if said animal is a pet of yours, it is your job to keep it healthy AND happy.  Besides, spreading happiness feels good.

           

            Some days I see my kids spreading kindness and I feel like the best parent in the world!  At other times, during those bickering-snarling scream-fests, it seems like we have a long way to go.  All I can do is keep trying, modeling and smiling, in hopes that our kids will be good people and do good things.  Like a pocketwatch heirloom passed down to me, I hope to pass something meaningful on to the children in my life. And it ain't likely gonna be money!

Deer in Rut - Human in Heat??

     

It’s that time of year again.  A time to keep an eye on your dogs and children if you live in a town like I do, where roaming deer are as common a sight as scampering squirrels.  Most of the year these large and powerful brown-eyed animals are relatively bashful and will stay out of your way.  But we are entering autumn, the Deer Season of Love.

            The sensible doe is generally not a concern unless she is protecting a vulnerable young’un.   However the larger bucks have by now grown their full tangle of antlers and are itching for some action. When in rut, the overly amorous males don’t take kindly to any interference in their quest for a mate, so when you see one of these horny fellows, you’d better give ‘em a wide berth.  (Did you ever wonder about where the term ‘horny’ may have come from?)  The buck’s sole job for the next three months or so is to convince as many females as possible that they would be a worthy contributor of DNA for their offspring – (“father” is too strong a word for these promiscuous beasts).  They won’t think twice before skewering a barking dog or pinning an inconvenient human to a tree, just ask my Labrador.

            You’ll see two bucks in a face-off, locking horns and showing off for the does.  Some of the females roll their eyes and walk away in boredom.  While others, usually the younger and less experienced, watch this ridiculous display of manhood with excitement.  These bucks must show their alpha status by standing their ground, showing off their impressive rack of antlers and outshining competitors in order to spread their seed among the local herd.  The younger, smaller bucks have to pick their battles.  They mostly let the big boys get the attention while they practice and learn, only occasionally getting lucky with a doe.

            Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?  After all, humans are animals too. 

It all starts in middle school, when boys’ antlers are merely nubs.  The young male humans constantly try to out-obnoxious each other to gain attention.  The more adolescent girls that giggle or run away, they figure, the better – at least they got their attention.  Then in high school the boys’ horns are more visible as they try to outperform one another in organized sports.  Donning grass-stained uniforms, they strut around with shoulders thrown back in their attempt to get the girls to notice and blush, and accept a ride home in their beat-up jalopy.  Of course the level of “hotness” of the car the boy drives has direct correlation to number of rides accepted – maybe the car is the human version of antlers?

Stop by any tavern in any college town and you will witness quite a display of humans in rut.  Often the young men are boisterous and loud, competing in pool games and dart throwing competitions.  The young females will be sprinkled throughout the room, discreetly watching the display and weighing the pros and cons of each alpha male.

If your trip down memory lane doesn’t jibe with the above dating scene, remember the example of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.  He wasn’t allowed to play in the reindeer games, but he eventually found his voice and stood up for equality and acceptance…and he got the girl in the end!  There is more than one path to romance and love, and fortunately for humans it is common for the nice guy to get the girl in the end.

Luckily for humans, we tend to be monogamous and mate for life, and therefore spend only a short period of our lives acting like fools to win love.  Once we have our mate it merely takes a little kindness and affection to snuggle up with our loved one.  The poor deer have to go through the dreaded dating scene every autumn for their entire lives in order to get lucky!

So if you are one of the lucky ones, take some time during this crisp and cool season for some kindess, affection and a snuggle.  In the meantime, keep your dogs on leash and an eye on your adventurous children!

(On a similar note, enjoy an account of a fourth grade class receiving a sex-ed lesson from some amorous deer:  http://isfulloflife.blogspot.com/2013/04/deer-mating.html)

DISCLAIMER:  I am merely a nature lover, not a scientist.  All statements made about any species are simply my own uneducated observations mingled with a smidge of research on Wikipedia.  Never take my words as Truth!!!   

A Sense of Time

            I grew up in a house full of clocks.  No, really.  My parents never saw a clock they didn’t love.  However they only brought home the most interesting or quirky.  Kind of like a clock orphanage.

            Just about every wall in every room had at least one time piece clinging to it.  Not a single one of those clocks contained a battery or electric wire (until the Atomic Clock arrived after we had all grown up).  That means that they are all powered by springs, cogs, gears and pendulums.  In other words, REAL clocks, with beautiful wooden cases and unique faces adorned with numbers in curlicue script or bold roman numerals.  Clocks that ticked at different tempos and volume. 

A visitor to the house might jump from their seat at noon when all the clocks clanged the announcement of a new hour at once.  The Westminster chime of the grandfather clock was regal and slow, like a King marching into the hall.  I can remember patiently waiting below the Cuckoo Clock for up to ten minutes, staring at the little hinged doors so I wouldn’t miss a peek at the brightly colored bird when it popped out to chirp off the time.  So often I would get distracted and be looking away at The Moment, and I would have to wait a whole-nother hour to catch a glimpse of the feathered fellow. My favorite little antique mantel clock banged out the hour like a rapid-fire machine gun, and the chime would be over before you could start counting.

            Every Sunday morning, Dad, in his robe and slippers, would first set his wind-up watch to the standard time.  Then he would move from room to room, cranking, pulling and adjusting each of the pieces.  Dad is tall, but he would use a step stool to safely reach the old ship’s clock above the kitchen door.   On Sundays the freshly wound clocks would chime within a few seconds of each other, but as the week went on their old workings and worn out springs might slow down or speed up time and by Saturday the chimes would spread out over ten minutes.  We always had to estimate the exact time by taking an average of what we saw and heard.  Exact time is overrated.

Dad became pals with one of the few clockworks repairmen in the area.  His sign read The Clock Doctor.  He always had at least one of our time-pieces in his shop for repair or adjustment.  I loved to go with Dad to pick up a newly rehabilitated wall clock, or to drop off the old Grandfather (clock, of course).  While the old guys chatted, I would wander around the dusty, cluttered shop admiring the tiny tools and intricate innards, down to the tiniest pocket watch.  I had a dream of once becoming a time-piece repair person myself.

Our Clock Doctor passed away, and his craft, I’m afraid, is on its deathbed.  Of course there will always be clock fanciers who demand the real thing, and a few true professionals that are expert in the craft of clockworks.  But when you look around you will see mostly fake clocks run by battery or wire.  You can tell by looking at the face.  If there are no key holes for winding, chains with weights or pendulums swinging, you’re looking at a fake.  And use your ears.  Are they ticking?  Chiming doesn’t count because those cheaters can have electronic hourly chimes.

Nowadays people seem more concerned with exact time than the beauty of gracefully passing time.  Digital clocks that are on every other building downtown scream the time down to the minute, and urge you to Hurry!  Hurry, don’t be late!

When was the last time you wound the watch on your wrist (or have you ever)?  Do you even HAVE a watch on your wrist?  The tech generation uses their phones as time-pieces.  My running cohorts are still likely to have time strapped to their wrists, but as of late these watches are much more than that.  The runner’s wrist is often adorned with GPS, beeping every mile traveled,  giving pace per mile, altitude gain, and frankly, taking the simple joy out of getting lost in the woods on your own two feet.

You won’t see anything on my wrist.  I didn’t make a conscious choice - the band broke and I was too lazy to fix the digital timer.  I have found that I’m rather comfortable without it.  I have a decent sense of time.  I know how long most things are going to take and I simply make time for them.  Having grown up with the constant rhythmic cacophony of ticking coming from every room, and the clanging of chimes down to the quarter hour, I think I must be ticking inside by now. 

It is true that my heart beats at about 60 beats per minute when at rest.  Maybe if I look inside my chest I will find springs, cogs and a pendulum marking my time.

Life Lessons from my Dog

     Dogs are the best people.  Of course I love my people, too.  But whenever I find myself admiring a quality in a human friend or loved one, the trait is almost always one that comes natural to a dog.  Think about all of the negative qualities that dogs lack – spitefulness, gossip, vengefulness, plain old selfishness.  There are more, but I prefer to walk on the sunny side of the street. 

Here are just a dozen of the countless lessons for a happy life that I have learned from my beloved labrador, Riley.  (Be thankful that I'm stopping at 12, because I could go on extolling her virtues into the triple digits!)

1.     Don’t be afraid to show enthusiasm.  Wag your tail, jump up and down and bark at least once a day.

2.     You’re never too old to play with toys.

3.     Celebrate the little things.  Be it an extra cookie, spilled milk to lick off of the floor, or a quick belly rub – it is all good

4.     Smile, and others will smile right back at ya, guaranteed!

5.     It never hurts to ask.  Even without words, you never know what a simple waggle and a grin can get you.

6.     Nap.  Often.  I don’t know who came up with the phrase “cat nap” because my Riley out-naps our felines daily.

7.     Loyalty above all else.  Always stand up for your loved ones, whether you’re fending off a chattering squirrel or the menacing and dangerous raccoon (or the threatening human).  Just put your hackles up and show some teeth - that ought to do it.

8.     Be a good listener.  Sometimes it will get you treats.

9.     Kindness and praise always work better than a scolding.

10.  Take a new and different path once in a while – you don’t know what treasure you might find.

11.  Stop to smell the roses, and the grass and the tree trunks and the rocks and fire hydrants – you don’t want to miss ANYTHING!

12.  The best thing in life is a good companion.

I love my dog.